


a pretty good crowd for a saturday

by Contra



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, Matt/ Foggy on the side, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contra/pseuds/Contra
Summary: Frank and Billy, after the Snap. [AU in which Curt somehow managed to save Billy.]
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	a pretty good crowd for a saturday

**Author's Note:**

> So I listened to Piano Man and suddenly I was thinking about Billy and Frank and I guess Davy's still in the navy (and probably will be for life)
> 
> It's post Snap and Punisher fic so figure the warnings out yourself.

Half the world stops existing and they don’t. Go figure.

“Shoulda been me,” Frank says. He’s sitting on the dirty floor of Nelson and Murdock, which is only Nelson now, between files that have, with the literal snap of a finger, become utterly meaningless, with half the parties turning into dust and the others reassessing priorities.

Foggy –Frank isn’t sure when he turned from Nelson into _Foggy,_ must have been some long night during the trial, must have been the way Red talked about him whenever he forgot that he was supposed to be all tight-lipped and mysterious, doesn’t matter, that world is gone - sits opposite him, not saying anything. Damn lawyer, that guy. Goes into the office even on days like this.

Red is nothing more than a shadow between them.

At least Foggy didn’t agree. It counts for something, though Frank isn’t sure what.

“I always thought-” Foggy starts.

Breaks off. Looks around. Thing about Frank is, he never had higher expectations for himself, well not after Maria and the kids. If you’d told him three weeks ago that the world would end two days later, he would have shrugged and kept on massacring whatever lowlife thug he was dealing with at the time.

Not like Red. Not like Foggy.

“You know, I’d gotten used to the thought of losing him.” Foggy’s voice is breaking. “I made myself imagine it, every fucking day.”

You can’t get used to it, Frank doesn’t tell him. There’s just a big fucking bleeding gash running through your whole existence and you either try to press the edges together or rip at them until they tear you apart.

But it’s obvious Foggy needs to say it and well, it’s not as if there’s anyone else left to say it to.

“It’s what they tell you in law school, you know? Make up the shittiest version of how the trial can go and then you put yourself through it over and over until you know it by heart. So you won’t blank when it happens.”

He stops for a second and this is how they live now and Frank can’t imagine that it’s supposed to be forever. Just hanging out in the ruins of what used to be the world.

“And I did, oh _fucking hell, I did._ I made myself imagine seeing it on the news. I made myself imagine somebody telling me, you or Karen or the fucking President. Even, you know, just never hearing from him again, with no explanation.

I played those scenarios through my mind. Told myself if I’m prepared for it, it’ll make it less bad when it happened, which I obviously knew was bullshit. But at least it was _something._ Some level of… preparation. And all the while I kept thinking it was going to be the Daredevil thing. That he’d die for some grand noble cause and I’d be the stupid regular guy who gets left behind by him and then it happened and it-

it didn’t even _matter.”_

Frank doesn’t tell him it never does.

Basically everybody Frank knew was dead before. The ones who weren’t didn’t exactly talk to him anymore. And yet it had taken him almost three weeks to make his way into this dingy old office.

He hadn’t been sure what he expected. Red was gone, that much he figured. Would have heard something from him if he wasn’t. And still he had to check. It had taken him and the rest of the world the first week to figure out what the fuck had happened. There were statements by the government and the UN and the Avengers, there were the obvious gaping holes of 50% of the world population, but mostly there was- chaos.

The other two weeks had been him trying to avoid having to consciously go out _looking._

“Do you know what happened to the guy you two were chasing?” Foggy asks and Frank furrows his brows.

“Weren’t working together lately. You know he disapproved of my methods.”

Foggy stares at him. “Then what was he writing to you about? He said it was for a case.”

There’s a tone in his voice that Frank recognizes. Jealousy. Not for whatever not-quite-friendship he and Red had, it was nothing compared to Foggy’s Soulmates Incorporated shit. But for the grieving aching memory of sharing a secret with Matt Murdock.

Pity Frank hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s talking about.

“He didn’t write to me. Hasn’t since what, January?”

“No he did. Shortly before… When-” Foggy doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. The world has been reduced to only a single _when._

They sit for a moment in the wordless implication of the world ending between typing an e-mail and never having the chance to hit send.

For the first time in three weeks, Foggy turns on Red’s computer. They’re both awkwardly standing around his desk, careful to not touch the chair, as if Red could just rematerialize right here any moment.

If Frank was alone, he’d probably sit in it anyway, but he saw the gentle care Foggy took to not even touch it and he gets it. They’ve all been making their own gravesites lately.

“Enter Password” the screen reader voice says. Foggy enters the password with shaking hands. From the way he closes his eyes Red guesses it’s some dumb inside joke. Maybe something dirty or a nickname. This is what stays. Red’s computer is still designed to be used by a blind person. Red’s password is still whatever he set it to, when they set up this office. Red was still the last person to touch the chair he disappeared in. Gravesites.

Foggy boots up the E-Mail program and because it’s expensive law firm software (extended through an uncounted amount of three-month trials until the world stopped running on that kind of intervals), it automatically saved drafts even in the minute or so it took between when Red stopped typing and when the entire country’s power grid went down as every single power plant in the world experienced critical system failure.

There’s been cults springing up over the country. The most common story is that the other half of the world hasn’t gone, simply split off into a parallel universe, and of course there are millions of bogus cures promising to “lift the veil” or similar bullshit. Like the dead aren’t gone, like they’re just invisibly still living among us, like the world is now simply two different colored glass panes lying on top of each other. Like we’re the ghosts, too.

_Frank,_

Red’s monotone computer voice woman says. _I’m not sure if you know this already, but Billy Russo is alive._

It can’t be true, is Frank’s first thought.

He shot Billy in the guts three times until Billy stopped moving. There were shittons of blood. When Frank wants to kill someone, they’re dead.

Except, historically, Billy.

The second thought is worse. It could have been true.

It could have been true right until that moment.

Frank leaves.

There’s the workshop. It’s empty now like it was empty then. Billy isn’t here.

There’s Billy’s old flat. It’s empty. There’s the Carousel. There’s the bar they used to hang out at, there’s Frank’s old house, there’s-

He visits more places that night than he did in the three weeks _since_ and he can’t stop being dully surprised how little change an apocalypse ended up making, all things considered.

Reality is a fractured thing with claws. So is he, so’s Billy.

In some twisted way it would make sense.

“Billy” he screams out in the cemetery.

He didn’t attend the funeral. He was, he realizes, never even invited. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure there ever was one.

Which is… something that should have crossed his mind before. He’s already dialed Curt’s number by the time he remembers.

Nobody answers. Nobody will.

Funny thing, isn’t it? Billy’s either dead or he isn’t and Frank is back at square one. Some things can’t even be changed by the end of the world.

He tries to imagine it. Billy, in whatever dirty hidey-hole he crawled into this time. Simply, meaninglessly, unceremonially turning into dust.

There are so many unthinkable things he’s done with Billy. Fucking each other, killing each other, whatever New York was – whatever Afghanistan.

Killing Billy felt good. That’s the truth, when you get down to it. Seeing him there on the floor, _of course it’s you, I’m happy it’s you_ , that was good. That was them.

So it makes absolutely no sense for this to be the limit, it makes _no sense_ but when Frank tries to imagine Billy like that, just suddenly being over, without it being _about_ anything, without it being _Frank,_ Frank suddenly gets so sick he retches.

This is weird. This hasn’t happened since what? His first Iraq tour probably.

It can’t be.

That’s what the _truth_ feels like. There’s always been truth and _truth_ and Frank and Billy were the latter. Not knowledge, not meaning, pure muscle memory recognition. Frank Castle is alive and so is Billy Russo.

So it’s that simple. For the first time in weeks, Frank has a job.

He pours over Murdock’s notes, which are, sadly, completely illegible etchings and markings, while Foggy hovers around the office and occasionally interrupts to bring him coffee, though he’s pretty sure it’s more of an excuse to watch over the last things Matt Murdock left behind.

“He always took his Daredevil notes like this,” Foggy explains apologetically. It’s not actual braille and it’s not Latin letters, it’s just a complicated system of folds and creases and cuts in the paper. “Nobody could read it but him. He thought it was safer and it was easier for him to read than, well…”

A part of Frank wants to crumple it up.

“Do you know where he went, maybe?”

Foggy doesn’t.

Funny how the world has turned into ruins, and they’re all seem to be made out of dead ends. Billy’s gotta be here somewhere, Frank thinks. He’s got to. It’s that simple.

He finds out enough to reconstruct that somebody (Curt? Madani? One of Billy’s goons?) must have taken him. At least the bullet holes in the autopsy report are only so slightly in the wrong place.

Of course, the only people who could notice that are Frank and Billy. He’s not sure why anyone would go to these length to cover it up. It’s not like Billy had any friends left.

He even finds the grave, so there was a funeral after all, but when he digs, it’s empty.

The cemetery is full of makeshift cardboard signs with names on them. These days demand is so high and supply so low that almost nobody gets a stone. Most of the names on the signs belong to people who didn’t leave anything behind to be buried anyway, and the others, who died from the fall-out are being put into mass graves at the edge of the cemetery, directly next to the road.

Easier to unload the trucks this way.

The weirdness of it keeps hitting Frank in waves. This is how the world ended. He isn’t dead. Billy is-

It’s like him, he has to concede. All the dead are in nameless piles or completely vanished and this fucker got an empty grave he never needed just for himself.

Sometimes, the question still worms itself into his mind. What if Billy is dead?

He isn’t, he says. It’s that simple. He can’t-

He’s still got Billy’s grave earth under his fingernails when he sees him.

“Hello Frank,” Billy says.

Frank got home from a supply run, it’s harder to get food nowadays with production mostly shut down and Frank could have upgraded his living situation, just moving into empty places has become something of a societal norm. That’s what they call moving on.

Frank didn’t and here, in his rotting, water damaged apartment, Billy is sitting.

This is what Frank could do:

He could shoot him.

He could bash his head in.

He could ask him how he’s been.

Instead he just says, “Billy.”

And Billy looks different now, not just because of his scars, not just because he’s ashen and skinny.

It’s his eyes.

“I’m alive.”

Frank nods. This is all they’ve ever been in the end, haven’t they? With all their fucked up implications, with all the unforgivabilities. In the end it came down to that, just Frank and Billy, breathing.

“I know you hate me,” Billy continues, though they both know that’s not true. Whatever it was between them, hate wasn’t part of it. Love wasn’t either. They were alive for each other, it’s as simple as that.

“But I _don’t get it._ Curt said… But Curt’s gone now and I don’t remember. I don’t know why he saved me. I don’t know why I-”

Frank shrugs. It’s not as he knows either.

“What do you want, Billy?”

Billy looks young now. Helpless. This is the part of him, Frank realizes, that Billy was willing to burn the world down to keep him from seeing.

The world burned anyway.

“It’s you and me, Frankie” Billy says. “You can do with that whatever you want.”

He’s not asking Frank to kill him. He’s not asking Frank to not kill him, either.

Frank doesn’t know shit, though, is the thing.

“How did you find me?” he asks, because it’s as good as anything.

“Talked to your lawyer, Murdock. That guy is seriously weird, dude.” Billy is trying to lighten the mood, though it’s not working. “Was, I mean.”

Frank starts laughing. “My _lawyer?_ ”

“Went on about confidentiality, though it was clear he knew something. Wouldn’t budge though. I threatened him a bit, but you know, the dude was blind. I was trying to track down people I knew had a connection to you.”

“You thought I’d tell my lawyer?”

Now it’s Billy who laughs. “No of course not. But I know you, Frank. There’s a very small amount of people who know something about you, and that guy did. Even you need places to crash at when you’re seriously blown to shits. I was so close to getting you, until, well, you know.”

“My _blind lawyer?_ ”

Billy shrugs. “Plus that blonde? Totally your thing.”

He says it casually, like Frank’s thing hasn’t been primarily Billy.

“You stayed away from Karen,” Frank says and there’s something dangerously quiet in his voice. Billy isn’t the kind of guy who handles competition well, perceived or real. This is the only reason he killed Maria. He’d do it again in a heartbeat and they both know that.

Not that there’s any reason for Frank to get protective here. Karen is already dead.

Billy smirks. “Don’t worry about her. Fate got her before I could.”

Frank takes a good look at Billy. He’s been looking at Billy since he stepped through the door. There’s a way of looking at a person that is like eating that person. Like stripping their skin off. Like ripping them apart.

“I just dug up your grave,” Frank says, casually. Yeah, fate is like this alright. He has devoured every part of Billy.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Found you.”

It’s not a new beginning. Everything that happened until now has still happened. Half the world is still dead and everyone else.

It’s all unchangeable. Billy’s smile still lights up the room.

“As I said, always you and me, Frank.”

Frank thinks about how he said it, that day he was dying. _I’m happy it’s you._

Touching Billy is not like killing him. Touching Billy is not sweet.

The entire world is made out of ruins and they are, too. Infinite fractals of broken ribcages. The Earth of Billy’s grave still under Frank’s fingertips.

Franks blood in Billy’s mouth.

This never had anything to with love.

“You killed me,” Billy says and they’re both still there, paradoxically. It’s not an accusation, it’s a confession of sorts.

“Billy,” Frank grunts and this is fate, his fingers over Billy’s scars is fate and his lips on Billy’s neck, “I wanted you dead.”

“I wanted you,” Billy says, his voice breaking. “I just want you.”

It’s the truth for what it’s worth but Billy never managed to want anything without breaking it. Always his ambitions too high and his grasp too tight and Frank, marrying Maria.

If they were honest, they’d say they were sorry for it.

But they aren’t.

This never had anything to do with love. Go figure.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Billy asks. “Out of all those people, we’re the ones who are still here. I couldn’t believe it when it happened.”

He doesn’t say, I love you, Frank.

“I killed you,” Frank says. He doesn’t say, the only thing that has terrified me in years is the thought of you dying alone.

“I knew,” Billy whispers, and they’re on top of each other now, awkwardly, naturally, against the crumbling wall, on the dirty floor. Frank can feel Billy’s heartbeat. “I knew you were alive when it happened. You killed me Frank, nobody else gets to do it but you.”

Frank’s hands are ghosting all over Billy’s body, his legs, his face, his arms. There is a gentleness that comes with devotion. In another life, that’s what this might have been.

They’ve never managed to quite look at each other at the same time, it was too obvious to be allowed in their lives.

“I’m tired of looking at the wall when I wanted to look at you,” Billy says. “I’m glad I didn’t die before I could look at you like this. You can kill me now if you want.”

This is like touching. This is like drinking each other up.

“I’m going to,” Frank answers.

“Curt knew, I think,” Billy whispers. “Maybe the only reason he saved me was so you could kill me again.”

“Curt is dead,” Frank says, which isn’t the point.

“Everyone’s dead these days.”

“I’ll kill you,” Frank says and there’s a handgun in the back of his Levi’s and there are two rifles under the loose floorboard six feet away and he’s got a few hand grenades stuffed behind wall cladding.

Frank curls into Billy instead.

“I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you,” this is how they say it, this is how they confess all the things they never had words for that were eating them up.

If Billy wanted to change them, he’d say _I forgive you_.

Instead he bites Frank’s shoulder so hard he draws blood. Unforgivabilities, all of it, right up to the end.

Frank wouldn’t say _I forgive you_ if it was the last thing he could possibly say. Maybe because it is.

His hands tear Billy’s shirt away and then scrape over his ribcage. Billy killed Frank killed Billy killed Frank killed Billy. Whatever this is, love’s got nothing on it.

“I’ll kill you, Billy. I swear, I’ll hunt you to the end of the world.”

“Oh but Frankie,” Billy is smiling and this is all the things they’ve always known about each other, rolled into one big broken truth. From Afghanistan to Frank’s suburban family home to the shootout in Central Park to here, all fractal infinities that fit into each other. Everything is haunted ruins and they are the ghosts.

“Oh but Frankie," Billy murmurs, "don’t you know we’re already here.”


End file.
